The Mysteries – Yiimimangaliso

Wednesday 16 September 2009 16.30 EDT
First published on Wednesday 16 September 2009 16.30 EDT

God and Jesus are now female in the formidable shape of Pauline Malefane. Lucifer has had a gender change, too, and is a svelte figure in lacy basque and PVC pants. Otherwise, this South African version of the Chester mystery cycle, played in seven languages, is very much a recreation of the Mark Dornford-May production that took London by storm in 2001. If it still raises the spirits, it is worth asking why.

Partly it's the power of the material. This medieval encapsulation of Bible stories is a great piece of popular art couched in language of beautiful simplicity: Abraham's injunction to Isaac, "make thee ready, my darling, for we must do a little thing", always strikes me as one of the most heart-stopping lines in all drama. Dornford-May's staging also has a matching directness. Noah's Ark is evoked by a cardboard sign, a trellis and an overturned stepladder. A bale of straw stands for Bethlehem. And a long white cloth extended across the stage signifies the Last Supper. As so often in theatre, the audience engages in an imaginative conspiracy with the actors.

But I suspect there is a more basic reason why this production works so powerfully. In our own predominantly secular society, we are less familiar with the Bible than the latest Dan Brown variation. Even when the Mysteries are done as brilliantly as they were by the National in the 1980s, the actors are performing assigned roles and the audience become day-return devotees. But, watching the 33 actors in this all-black company, I felt that they were telling the story out of inner conviction. When a chorus sang Gaudete or when Lazarus emerged through a trapdoor in a shimmer of white, I felt the cast were genuinely rejoicing and believed in the possibility of miracles. However much militant rationalists may deplore this, the sincerity of their faith communicates itself to the audience.

Admittedly, the political aspects of the story have been toned down since we last saw the show: there is no longer a white Cain killing a black Abel, and the sjambok-wielding riot police seem less brutal than they were. But the production's exuberance remains irresistible.

After Noah and his family have been rescued from the flood, we get a rousing chorus of You Are My Sunshine. Angels in miners' helmets descend on Joseph and Mary for the Annunciation. And Malefane, who moves easily from an hortatory God to a suffering Jesus, at one point leads the ensemble in a riotous, knee-slapping dance. At such moments, we are witnessing not just a well-drilled company but an expression of communal joy.